


Frigid

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Frigidity, Therapy, Unintended Consequences, sex therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 07:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15480516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: I'm a repairman, and what I fix is broken women. Women who can't function as sexual partners. Women who are hopelessly frigid. There's no woman I can't fix. I think.





	Frigid

All right, so I'm a serviceman. What I service is women. Yeah, my  
business card reads "Sex Therapist," but I'm really nothing but a repair  
technician. What I fix is malfunctions in the female sexual response.  
I make women whole.

 

Ariella was an interesting case. A solid block of ice, that's what she  
was. A sensitive soul, but numb from the waist down. She had heard of  
how wonderful orgasms can be, but had never actually experienced it.

It wasn't as if she hated sex. She enjoyed the feeling of closeness, the  
warmth of cuddling up next to an affectionate male body. She was just  
afraid of giving up control, of _letting go_ , even at the very  
height of passion. So, that glorious moment of release was denied her.

She called me on a Sunday afternoon.

"Is this Mr. Johnson?"

"Speaking."

Johnson isn't my real moniker, of course. I use it as a professional  
name because of the obvious phallic reference. You know, like in "getting  
your johnson up." I had tried "Mr. Goodwench" for a while, but that got  
me more laughs than professional respect.

"You come highly recommended, Mr. Johnson. I have this problem, and I  
hope you can . . ."

"Ma'am, are you aware that weekends are time-and-a half? And house calls  
run an extra fifty on top of that."

"Money's no object. I need help and I need it now. How soon can you  
get here?"

I went through the hurry-up drill. A quick shit and a shower and a shave.  
Squeaky clean both inside and out. I gargled with a proprietary brand  
of mouthwash for non-offensive breath. Then into traveling clothes --  
silk shirt with ruffles, and skin-tight velour pants with quick-release  
buckles. Grabbed my toolkit on the way out. A scant hour later I was  
pulling into her driveway.

She was a tall brunette. Wide shoulders and small breasts tapering to a  
slim waist, but generously endowed in the hips and butt. A pear-shaped  
body configuration usually indicates a greater than normal estrogen level  
and an above-average sex drive. The problem was likely a psychological  
block.

"The meter is running, ma'am, so let's not bother with the social  
niceties. Trust me -- I'm fully medically certified, so there's no need  
for shyness or modesty. Remove your clothes, please. All of them."

A quick but thorough physical exam confirmed my first impressions.  
(Yes, I'm fully qualified as a nurse-practitioner. It's a requirement  
of the trade.) Nothing wrong that needed medical attention, except maybe  
. . . Well, on to the next step.

"Lay on the bed, please. On your back. That's right. Now raise the knees  
slightly and spread your legs. Thank you."

Visual inspection showed labia well-formed and normal in virtually every  
respect. I gently probed with an index finger. No problems discernible  
inside. Now, the first test. Her vagina remained unlubricated even after  
clitoral manipulation. Aha!

"Are you able to masturbate to orgasm, ma'am?"

She blushed, then stammered, "Sometimes, well, maybe one time out of  
ten. But it's not really what you could call an orgasm. It's just so  
hard to . . ."

"To what, ma'am?"

"To let myself go. I guess, to give myself permission to . . ."

"That's a common enough problem and I've treated quite a number of women  
for it. First we'll try -- "

A vibrator brought her to the brink of orgasm, but nothing I could do  
would push her over the top. She squealed when I tongued her clit, then  
held me tight and sobbed. "I just can't do it. There's something _wrong_  
with me!"

I had some doubts about whether this particular client could be restored  
to normal function. During preliminary testing, my portable EEG unit had  
given some highly anomalous readings. All the same, I pasted on my best  
professional smile and summoned up my most convincing bedside manner.

"No, ma'am. We haven't yet begun to fight. Over on your stomach, please."

I had rather suspected it would come to this. A few women require  
something a bit more fundamental to remove psychological blocks. And  
there's nothing more fundamental than the fundament.

"Have you ever attempted anal sex, ma'am?"

"Well, yes, but -- "

"But?"

"I kind of enjoyed the sensations, but it's . . . I don't know . . . it's  
dirty and perverted somehow."

"This is strictly a medical procedure, ma'am. I'm a fully board-certified  
technician, and you can rest assured that any therapeutic methods I employ  
are approved and appropriate."

Don't for a moment think that I was going to ass-fuck her for my own  
pleasure. In fact, the rigorous self-control we're trained in focuses  
on clinical detachment and denying one's self pleasure. I can hold  
an erection for a full hour, even during vigorous intercourse, but my  
capacity to _enjoy it_ is greatly diminished. The client's therapy  
always takes the top priority.

I applied a specially formulated preparation of lubricating electrolyte  
gel to my erect penis, then gently rubbed some around and into the  
client's anal sphincter.

"Ooh! That feels cold!"

"Lubrication, ma'am. I'm going to gently insert a finger into your anus,  
both to check the muscle tone and to condition the interior. This is  
a preliminary to . . . what is vulgarly known as ass-fucking. However,  
this is a strictly clinical procedure, you understand."

"Well, if you must. It won't hurt, will it?"

"No, ma'am."

Hurt? Causing a client pain could cost me my professional license. Not  
to mention exposing the agency to a lawsuit. But with the techniques we  
employ, there's scant probability of that.

"There. My finger is inside. Now a second finger to stretch the opening  
a bit. How does that feel?" (I was all the while massaging her neck with  
my other hand.)

"Soothing. Relaxing. Yes, that's so good."

Her anal opening gradually loosened and the sphincter muscles went  
slack as I gently flexed and applied accupressure from within. (It's a  
proprietary technique, of course, so I can't discuss details here.)

She was aroused. Her pulse had speeded up and her pupils were dilated.  
Her vaginal opening was sopping wet with lubrication. She was gasping  
and involuntarily arching her back and raising her hips. Definitely  
pre-orgasmic, and now I had to decide how to send her over the edge.

"I'm going to insert myself, my penis that is, into your anus, ma'am.  
We'll take it slow and easy, and if you feel any discomfort, just holler."

Of course she didn't feel any discomfort. I'm a past master at back-door  
therapy, and I know just the right buttons to push to make it enjoyable  
for the receiver. As the head of my penis pressed into her rear opening  
and began to disappear inside, she gasped, then a shudder rippled up  
her spine from the tailbone to the neck. Her body went slack, then began  
writhing as she let loose sharp yelps of pleasure. Her skin took on the  
radiance of a woman in the grip of forces she couldn't control.

Now was the crucial interval. She could still freeze up and block orgasmic  
release . . . unless I removed that choice from her. I began a slow rhythm  
of alternating deep and shallow thrusts. This would create low-intensity  
pressure waves from the air alternately compressed and distended in  
her lower intestine. It induced a thrumming vibration in her guts,  
similar to the overtones of a low-pitched oboe. Hypnotic mood-altering,  
resonating subsonics. I was playing her like a musical instrument, and  
the hole in her bottom was the echo chamber for our symphony. Thirty  
strokes per minute -- the heartbeat rhythm, the metronome throb of the  
pulse, the oceanic beat of the surf. An unearthly wail ripped through  
her intestines and a scream of ecstasy began bubbling up from her throat.

The electrolyte gel formed an airtight seal between my shaft and her  
opening. And it had one additional property. It was an excellent conductor  
of electric current. I reached behind me and pressed the button on the  
small device strapped between my buttocks.

A pulsating low-voltage AC current passed through my body and into hers.  
My penis acted as an electrode and her rectum was the receiver. Her body  
went rigid, and she gasped as her anal sphincter involuntarily clamped  
down on my penis. A powerful orgasm began eroding any remaining traces of  
her self-control. I had blasted loose her resistance to letting herself  
go and she was finally experiencing sensual release. But that wasn't all.

Something had gone wrong. Badly wrong. The floor was shaking and the  
walls were swaying. Windows shattered and plaster dust rained down on  
us. Earthquake?

Time to boogie. I quick-march disengaged from her sphincter. That let  
loose the inevitable liquid slurping sound of escaping air, which I could  
have taken measures to avoid under other circumstances. Didn't even have  
time to spray flower-scented deodorant to mask the faint shit-smell that  
sometimes accompanies anal sex. No time for anything but . . . "Out! Right  
now! No time to put anything on! Move it! Now!"

We got out just before the roof collapsed. I took her by an elbow and  
walked her toward my car. Then I got an old blanket out of the trunk to  
drape around her bare butt. The earth movements had died down by then.

She had an idiot smile plastered on her face and couldn't keep from  
giggling. "Got my first real orgasm, I did, and a humdinger it was, too.  
Whooee! Made the whole house fall down. So what? I'm insured. And I'll  
never be the same again. Nope. I'm a complete woman now. And I love  
it. Love it! When can we do it again?"

I was starting to get a bad feeling about all this. Real bad. Her house  
just collapsed around her ears, and all she thinks about is getting her  
rocks off. Nutty broad. But the agency needed the money, and pissing  
off a client would be highly uncool. I hesitated only a moment before  
setting an appointment for next week.

 

I knocked on the door of the hotel suite. Nice place. Well, I already  
knew Ariella had money out the kazoo if she could afford my services on an  
ongoing basis. And with her house trashed by the earthquake, she had moved  
into the fanciest joint in town. I'd have to raise my hourly rate maybe.

We'd try for a second-order orgasm this time. That ought to put the  
finishing touches on her course of treatment and probably get me a nice  
bonus, too. I was starting to get antsy about this broad, though. That  
earthquake _had_ to be a coincidence, didn't it?

Same modality as before. Anal insertion -- properly done, of course --  
is the most effective method of breaking down inhibitions and other  
barriers to total sensual release. As I inserted myself into her, she  
let loose a raucous laugh. "So, what are we trying for _this_  
time, doc?"

What we were trying for was a level of intensity that few mortals are  
privileged to experience. Sometimes known as the Great Orgasm, it was a  
violent discharge of all the sexual energies dammed up and accumulated  
over a lifetime of repression and frustration. It's been known to result  
in serious nerve damage or even death, but I'm trained to handle all  
that. Still . . .

The pressure inside her rectum was slowly building. My penis acted  
like the piston in a bicycle pump, inflating and contracting her lower  
intestine. Slow, even strokes in the recommended cadence created the  
proper harmonic rhythms, the Sakatu rhythms, the musical resonance  
that would unlock the discharge mechanism of the parasympathetic  
nervous system. With a stethoscope pressed against her lower belly,  
I monitored the low-pitched thrumming ascending the spiraling coils of  
her colon. Music. Sensual music. Dangerous vibrations.

She was beginning to lose control. Her sphincter loosened and a low  
growl escaped her lips. I toggled the electrical stimulation to high. A  
low moan --

Outside: a blinding flash! A deafening boom. Lightning strike! The  
window panes shattered and the walls rocked. Another flare of light,  
followed by a boom. I hurriedly pulled out of her anus. Once again, a  
natural disaster in the making. That was all I needed. This definitely  
_wasn't_ in the treatment plan.

We made it down into the lobby of the hotel. Had to take twelve flights of  
stairs because the power was out and nothing was working. Several hundred  
people were milling around in the chaos, and we certainly weren't the  
only ones barefoot and in bathrobes. Ariella was bouncing up and down  
like a little kid. She was basking in the afterglow of the second real  
orgasm of her life, and it was all a grand adventure for her. She was  
eager to set up another appointment. I told her that I'd let her know.

 

Thalia is my partner in the agency. The _senior_ partner, as it happens.  
She handles the male clients, and also keeps the books. The cash flow  
has been none too good lately, she was reminding me. Our bank balance  
would look much healthier if I could keep Ariella on the string just  
a little while longer. I had a very bad feeling about all this, but I  
reluctantly agreed.

I had a dream that night. I was tightly entangled in the branches of  
a huge tree. Somehow I knew that it was Yggdrasil, the World Tree of  
Norse legend. And there was a huge face looking at me. The Face of the  
Tree. It was Ariella's face.

I woke up in a cold sweat. It was clear what the dream meant. Ariella  
was in some mysterious way connected with cosmic mysteries. And my  
professional therapy _had_ been having major unforseen side-effects.  
I was tampering with Dark Forces.

All right, I'd give it one more shot. If there were any more forces of  
nature unleashed, I'd cut Ariella loose and damn the consequences. The  
bills would stay unpaid, and Thalia would just have to deal with it.

 

The doorbell rang. It was Ariella. I'd reluctantly agreed to have the  
session take place at my own home, considering that she was staying with  
relatives while her house was being repaired. She'd had enough of hotels,  
she said. I couldn't blame her.

The session went surprisingly well. I was deep inside her ass, pumping,  
stoking the pressure waves and tuning the intestinal vibrations. When  
it came time for the electrical triggering jolt, I impulsively dialed  
the voltage all the way to the top, five notches past the recommended  
maximum. What the hell -- if it was going to bring down the wrath of  
Mother Nature on us, I might as well give Ariella the most powerful  
orgasm that a woman's body is capable of.

She groaned, and her body went into violent convulsions. Then all her  
muscles spasmed and went rigid, and she screamed. And lost consciousness.  
I was suddenly afraid. Very afraid.

It was all right, though. She opened those light gray eyes and . . .  
smiled at me. Such a sweet smile it was. And she thanked me.

There was no earthquake this time. No lightning and no fireworks. Nothing  
at all. And Ariella's bonus check for $50,000 will keep the agency  
solvent for a couple of months. So, everything turned out okay. Maybe.

I just saw the news reports. Astronomers have been observing anomalous  
changes in the sun's chromosphere. Most of the scientists don't think  
it means much. But one guy -- all his colleagues thinks he's a crank,  
but still -- this one guy says the sun may be entering a pre-nova  
stage. That means it could blow up in a year of two. And that would be  
that. The end of the world. Curtains. Finito.

I've come to realize that maybe some women are better off frigid. And  
maybe the world would be a safer place if everyone concerned came to  
terms with that. Maybe I should have stayed an appliance repairman --  
fixing Frigidaires was a hell of a lot simpler than fixing frigid women  
\-- instead of getting uppity ideas about Helping People. Helping, that's  
a laugh.

Holy shit, what . . . have . . . I . . . done?


End file.
